She is the worst goddamn singer in the whole world!

(SPOILERS) A clueless old luvvie beset by
dodgy vocal chords holds forth before a rapt peer group, little aware of how foolish
she sounds. But enough about Meryl’s Golden Globes performance. Florence Foster Jenkins is good period
fun, with a splash of pathos, in the serviceable manner that British heritage
pictures tend to deliver so well. Stephen Frears, a genre-versatile director
with a number of very good pictures on his CV has made an easily digestible piece
of fluff that seems built for Oscars and Streep’s annual nomination assault. It
would be mean-minded to find significant fault with what’s on offer, but it’s
worth noting that the darling of the awards circuit’s performance is not one the
best herein.

Indeed, there’s a whiff of déjà vu about
her mannered delivery. Not exactly in a bad
way, as she’s become quite adept at comedy since the late ‘80s, at which point
she couldn’t get arrested (remember She Devil?)
But if what we’re getting is a ham playing a ham, the problem is that the ham in
question is acting royalty; Meryl could never be a truly great ham, the sort who can go off the deep end and turn ham into
something to be relished. She’s much too controlled, measured and faux-humble for
that.

So it’s Hugh Grant, as St Clair Bayfield, husband
and manager of Florence’s New York heiress, and Simon Helberg, as her pianist
Cosmé McMoon, who deserve the lion’s share of the
plaudits. One might argue Grant is the ultimate actor for déjà vu, always
giving the same performance, often in what appears to be the same film
(certainly in the same role). But there’s a reason (apart from the way in which
he actually doesn’t think he’s much
cop, not faux-humbly so) Grant is so selective with his material; he rightly
knows he’s best suited to certain sorts of roles, and while they’re very
different kettles of acting fish, he has as keen a sense of this as his
surname’s sake Cary did.

You need someone charming and likeable to
play a character who is essentially a philanderer and questionable in terms of the
extent to which he’s a gold-digger using his relationship to facilitate a
particular lifestyle, career and social whirl. Grant embodies this side of St
Clair but also a genuine devotion to Florence, and we don’t doubt that the two aren’t
mutually exclusive. It’s also easy to forget just what masterful, natural comic
timing Grant has; when he’s in a scene with Streep, it’s difficult not to see
her overplaying her way through the role while all Hugh needs is the odd
inflection or gesture.

I’m not a big fan of The Big Bang Theory – it’s passable and inoffensive it happens to
be on and I happen not to have the energy to lift the remote – but my
appreciation of Helberg’s abilities has gone up hugely on seeing him here.
There’s something slightly Alan Cumming-esque about his flighty, slightly
shrill performance, but while it’s ostensibly played for laughs, he knows exactly
when to switch into sincere and empathic. At first we consider Cosmé superior and a bit snotty, but despite his concerns over career
suicide by association with Florence (the financial temptation can only be so
much of a carrot), he too develops great affection for the “singer”, whom he
found almost impossible to restrain his mirth at on first recital.

Helberg and Grant bounce off each other
very well too, as Cosmé becomes privy
to St Clair’s peccadillos, with the latter making him the fall guy when
Florence witnesses the aftermath of a rowdy party (“When I said help yourself to a nightcap, I meant just one! Look what
he’s done!”) It isn’t only Cosmé’s reaction to
Florence that elicits laughs; Frears knows well the infectious nature of
uncontrolled hilarity, such that when David Mills’ socialite pal of Rebecca
Ferguson (as Kathleen, St Clair’s girlfriend) witnesses Florence for the first
time his attempts to restrain himself are a hoot, only topped by Nina Arianda’s
Agnes Stark, eventually led from the concert on all fours, wracked by
uncontrollable hysterics.

Agnes’ subsequent turnabout at the Carnegie
Hall gig, then, as Florence is assailed by uncouth armed forces hecklers, is
just the kind of move the picture could have done without, offering a treacly
celebration of how Florence’s sheer, undaunted, oblivous bravery and purity of
spirit affects all she comes into contact with.

As to how aware the actual Florence was of
the less-than-genuine appreciation of her admirers, the verdict appears to be
mixed. She had been singing for years prior to the compressed events depicted
in the picture, so some say there’s no way she wasn’t, and didn’t to some
extent thrive on it. On the other hand, the response to the Carnegie Hall concert
is said to have deeply hurt her (although she suffered a heart attack shopping
five days later, rather than retiring to her death bed as depicted here). Likeable
as it is, Florence Foster Jenkins is little
more than the latest in a line of serviceable, fast-food period pictures; after
the heat dies down from its various nominations, you’ll soon forget it existed.

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